Musings on a Life Quite Ordinary

Sometimes I wonder if I really am a middle aged gay man trapped in the body of a barely this side of 40 straight woman.   That’s how the playlist on my iPod was described to me by a child recently.   Very advanced these days kids, aren’t they?   I was fifteen before I realised to some people gay wasn’t just the man who used to host the Late Late Show every Saturday night.    Yes I am definitely old enough to remember when it was on Saturday nights. The first of my closest friends turned 40 this week.   She’s fabulous and taking everything in her stride.   I want to be too.   It’s got me thinking, I’m doing some positive stuff like writing my non bucket bucket list.   But then I go and try out expressions like “Oh no you di ent!” and saying ummmm hummm in a really exaggerated way with my lips stuck out like I fell asleep face down in a bowl of collagen.   Thankfully my children aren’t old enough yet to be embarrassed by me. I think I’m a little off kilter at the moment.   There

I have a guilty pleasure. It is situation comedies.   You know those silly ones, where everyone looks like they just stepped out of a salon even at seven in the morning.   They go through divorces like it’s the most fun thing in the world.   Have really funny friends who are always there, no need to go to work, deal with their own lives, they’re permanently on tap for the leading lady or man of the show.   Everyone has incredible clothes and really clean houses with beautiful furnishings.   You know the type of program I mean. Have you ever noticed how they always have unending fresh pots of coffee in their spotlessly clean percolators?   That fascinates me; if I’ve got coffee in my pot first thing in the morning, it’s usually because I forgot to clean it out the night before. Anyway, the point of this musing is that one of these comedies involves a woman who throughout her career as a full time Mum has been putting together a list of all the things she plans to do once her childre

Is it just me or is everything getting harder? There seems to be so much more to deal with nowadays. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.   Like trying to achieve things that have been beyond my reach for ages - sorting out the attic, losing weight or mastering my nemesis - the iPhone. Last month it was the washing machine.   It broke beyond repair and we had to buy a new one the day after we put our house on the market. Then Ireland went down the toilet financially just after the advertising cheque was cashed by the estate agent who is selling our house. A few weeks ago, our daughter decided to block the plug hole in the shower so she could play swimming with her toys.   The result was a flooded en suite and a big leak into the dining room. Last week, our gas boiler broke and leaked all over the microwave.   All these problems cost a lot of money, which when you consider the really important person coming to visit our children in less than three weeks time, we could do

I was delighted to discover the Dear So and So Letters recently thanks to Kat at 3bedroombungalow.blogspot.com via the always talented and lovely HotCrossMum.   I’m hooked and have been looking for them on blogs across the globe for weeks now. Here’s my contribution.   It was so fun and quite therapeutic; I highly recommend the exercise to anyone really. ** Dear Handyperson of Non Specific Gender, Do I really look that stupid? If that’s how much money can be made from fixing the side panel of a bath, then I’m in the wrong business. I’ll keep shopping around thanks. Yours with my arms folded because you keep looking at my boobs, Missus. ** Dear Government, I am very disappointed in you. Get onto the naughty step for a time out.   One minute for each euro you’ve wasted.   That should keep you out of the way for long enough to stop you screwing things up any further. Also, leave the elderly and the young alone you big bully. Yours on the verge, An Irish Citizen. ** Dear

This week I get to say something I’ve wanted to say for a long time.   My son can walk.   I rang my husband and said “He walked!” I rang my mother to say “My little boy is walking”, I’ve told people in the school yard, at the supermarket, via email, text and Twitter.   Anyone who stands still long enough will hear me say that my son can walk. Some of them look at me like I’m a little mad; he’s not the only child in the world to start walking late after all.   Those closest to us know though, that it hasn’t been all that simple for him and how close we came to missing the window of opportunity that allowed him to get the right treatment and most importantly – get it in time. I was so proud of him when he walked, I cried and couldn’t stop.   I confused our daughter who thought something was wrong.   It’s difficult to explain happy crying to a five year old.   She really didn’t see what the big deal was, as she said, we did tell her last year he would eventually catch up.   But she

Right, brace yourselves, today I’m having a moan and it’s a doozy.   If you’re looking for something all perky and sweet, you may as well stop reading because today, I’m not your woman.   I’m in a bad mood. I feel grouchy and my right nostril has been itching since I skipped breakfast.   My husband would say that means there’s a fight coming my way.   Sounds good right now, wouldn’t mind smacking the face off someone and I know just who too.   Come on, we’ve all got one.   That super annoying pain in the backside who rubs you up the wrong way, especially when everyone else says she’s sooooo nice.   Sure she is - for psychopathic Stepford Wife.   She says things like “Really, you’re not 40? Oh I thought I missed that birthday”.  I would call her a silly cow but that wouldn't be nice to our bovine friends. Aaaagggghhhh! Is that how you type the sound of a scream?   Not very satisfying is it.   If I were to scream today, its ferocity would probably break a window.   And to top i

Earlier this week, I was tagged by the delightful and talented HotCrossMum She challenged me to list my top ten things in my perfect man/woman. There’s no point listing my top ten for a man, because my beloved man is smokin’ hot.   How could I possibly be limited to just ten things that make him perfect?   He broke the mould, I get a toothache just looking at him – Hi Babe, how’s work? Luckily, I have been blessed with a large number of fabulous women in my life.   I really do have a lot of them.   From family and friends, to other mothers I’ve met through my kids, I’ve always got someone to reach out to, be it with a crisis, for a laugh, for a cry, for a moan, for a bitch, or just for a ramble about nothing. So, this should be easy, however again, narrowing myself down to just ten things has been a bit of a challenge in itself, but here goes: My Perfect Woman 1.        Is an honest person, no matter how hard that is.   Even when I do something stupid like wear jeggings.   A

One day, while at a friend’s house watching her freak out over the volume button on the TV being on an odd rather than even number, it occurred to me that lot of people I know have some funny quirks.   Some people may call them obsessions, but I’ll go with quirks because they’re not doing any harm.   I think. One friend washes her hands constantly.   Another cannot and I really mean cannot shake hands with anybody.   Another can’t handle his pen being moved from exactly where he left it.   I also know someone who has to have their tea bag left untouched for exactly 1 minute 40 seconds in a cup of scalding water and don’t dare squeeze that thing as you remove it.   Ok, the last one is me, but what’s wrong with developing a method of making the absolute best cup of tea.   There’s nothing worse than looking forward to a lovely cuppa and then taking a mouthful of tar or worse – dishwater. Ok, it’s possible that it is just me and my friends.   Birds of a feather do flock together after

This week marked my Dad’s birthday.   He’s no longer with us, but I like to remember him on his birthday even though he wasn’t a fan of the day himself.    We clashed a lot, my Dad and me, especially when I was younger.   I complained about him, argued with him, scoffed at his ideas, ignored his orders and regularly used my all time weapon against him - contradiction.   There were months at a time when if he said black, I said white.   I wish I hadn’t.  He was a good man, his heart was in the right place and right to the end, he tried his best.   Which is the most any of us can do. It’s much nicer to remember the good stuff.   Like how he could create a gastronomic masterpiece without a recipe.   His laugh.   His collection of hobbies from fishing to brewing beer so strong, one bottle left me a dribbling incoherent mess.   His loyalty to RTE Radio 1.   His kindness to anything with four legs.   How he gave me a bag of twenty one pound coins for emergencies the day I left home.   How

When I was 9 I wanted to grow up so I could cycle a bike to school. When I was 10 I wanted to grow up so I could be a Charlie’s Angel. When I was 11 I wanted to grow up so I could eat chips every day for dinner. When I was 12 I wanted to grow up so I could wear make up. When I was 13 I wanted to grow up so I could babysit. When I was 14 I wanted to grow up so I could go to a debutants ball. When I was 15 I wanted to grow up so I didn’t have to go to school anymore. When I was 16 I wanted to grow up so I could drive a car. Some time after that I did grow up (more or less) and discovered it wasn’t all that great after all. The thing is, at no point on this journey through my childhood and teenage years do I ever remember wanting to actually do the really serious stuff that goes along with being an actual grown up. How did two 9 year olds who live near me learn how many points are in a bar of chocolate and a packet of crisps?   And why would they care? Why do we live in a wor

Remember buying sweets by the quarter pound or the half pound or maybe even one eighth of a pound if you had already spent most of your pocket money and the sweet shop keeper was nice? Pear drops, satin pillows, pips, cough drops, mint imperials, rhubarb and custard and my all time favourite – cola cubes.   I loved cola cubes; I would suck the sugar off the outside and then nip away at the corners until I hit the heavenly reward of gooey chewy stuff in the centre.   My mother still remembers one day in her kitchen after school when one of them took her filling clean out of her tooth. I loved them so much in my teens that I actually wrote their name on my pencil case which was one of those geometry set tins that had been dropped, sat on and stepped on so many times over the years that I could barely fit one red and one blue pen in it by my last year at school.     I still have it somewhere. I did write Kola Kubes in an attempt to be cool, but then I also believed at the time tha

Today is my wedding anniversary. My husband is notoriously difficult to buy for and as this year is symbolised by iron I toyed with the idea of giving him some leafy green veg, but couldn’t come up with a romantic angle, so scrapped the idea. I decided to ask him what he would really like and he gave me a very specific request – a new photograph of me with the kids. Great I thought, he’s making it really easy this year.   I would have it sorted in a jiffy. OY VEY was I wrong.   We have in our 6 years of marriage brought 2 wonderful children into this world.    They are 5 and 2.   Our 5 year old is photogenic beyond belief and as a result of being the first has been completely au fait with a camera since birth.   Our 2 year old on the other hand calls the camera ‘cheese’ and twice actually tried to eat it.   In the 2 hours 45 minutes of my life that I will never get back I took 179 photos.   I was able to use 2 of them which are now in the 3rd frame I bought.   The first was smashe

I used to say I was a writer, but about 2 1/2 years ago I realised I had to stop saying that because how could I say I'm a writer when I'm not actually writing anything. I should have said I'm a procrastinator.  That would have been true although possibly a conversation stopper.  What could I say?  "Well I haven't written anything today because we found a fly floating in the breakfast dishes and had to hold its funeral in the back garden." Anyway, I have finally decided to bite the bullet and put myself out there.  As they say, the only way to be a writer is to actually write something and I'm starting here, with a blog. So, hello, like the title says, I'm quite ordinary, so don't be disappointed if I write at length about something like why the heck porridge cooks at a different speed every morning despite religiously using the same ratio of oats to milk.  Seriously! It's infuriating. I'm a stay at home parent and very happy to be